mental snapshot of a girl late to class
Yours is a million-strand river,
a yellow tributary, kinks
of broken gold eating the sunlight.
Maybe the wind will keep
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
those bleached shoe strings
out of laser-point blue eyes.
Your head jerks back like a horse,
paddocked, looking through me
into the puddles of concrete.
My locks do not rival rapids
or waterfalls. Nor do they fall
horizontally like your near-white
flag of surrender,
shoes beating the concrete
as discreetly as possible.